"And this here is the Les Noces de Cana by Véronèse," The tour guide continued on in her thick French accent. The group of students let out a series of "oohs" and "ahs" as they crowded closer to the painting. A series of camera clicks went off, echoing around the walls of the large room. "This is one of his most popular pieces. The painting depicts the wedding feast at Cana, where Jesus-"

Madeline turned away from the painting, only half-listening to the woman leading the class around the Louvre. She let her eyes roam around the Denon Wing; it had been about two years since she last came to France with her family, but in honesty, seeing some of these paintings once was more than enough.

Not nearly as many people went on the senior trip as expected, but there were still enough of the class present to cramp up the hallways of the museum. Most of the tour was spent walking at an excruciatingly slow pace while staring at the back of people's heads, and occasionally stopping at an art piece to listen to the guide talk about it in an agonizing amount of detail.

"I have absolutely no idea what the fuck this lady is saying," Zach whispered, only loud enough so the other five could hear. "Please tell me I'm not the only one."

"Bien sûr, vous êtes seul," Maddie responded, sounding distracted as she let her hand trail down the wall, studying the movement of her fingers like they were the most interesting things she had ever seen. "Nous ne sommes pas tous idiots."

"I understood absolutely none of that, and somehow I know I was insulted."

"Ne t'inquiète pas, Zach," Carson spoke, his tone dull and distant. He had his eyes fixed on the tour guide, but it was clear he was only pretending to listen. "Tout ce qu'elle disait était vrai."

"Okay, seriously guys, just because we're in France does not mean we should abandon the English language," Jason complained. "Some of us are only monolingual."

"Jason, you've been taking Spanish since kindergarten," Luna questioned.

"Correction," he responded, pointing a finger at her. "I've been sleeping through Spanish since kindergarten. And it's not like knowing any Spanish would help me right now, anyways."

"Pero el español es muy importante, Jason," Dylan teased, happy to have something to do other than listen to the tour guide– because even Dylan had given up listening. "Es el cuarto lengua más hablado."

"Muchos franceses también hablan español," Carson added. "España está a solo dos horas de vuelo desde aquí."

Jason groaned, bringing a hand up to his head, "You're all making me dizzy. My brain hurts."

"That's because it's thinking," Madeline responded, patting his shoulder. "It probably hurts because it's never done that before."

They hadn't even noticed that the tour guide had stopped talking until the group started moving again, at the same painfully slow pace they'd been walking in for what felt like ages. At most, they had only been here for maybe an hour or two. Some students were still hanging on to the guide's every word, some even asking a question now and then. The chaperones were doing the best they could to look alert and attentive, but one had fallen asleep against the wall during a particularly long stop. Most of the students had given up and were dragging their feet as they walked, and talking amongst themselves to pass time. Whoever's grand idea it was to a bunch of teenagers off on a tour of one of the most renowned museums the same day they all got off a 10 hour flight deserved jail time.

"God, I'm so tired," Jason complained. His shoulders sagged as the continued shuffling down the hall. "This jet lag is killing me."

"J, you literally slept through the entire flight," Dylan commented, eyeing him warily. "There's a spot of your dried saliva on my shirt as proof."

"My condolences on the shirt," he responded through a yawn. "You make a really comfy pillow, by the way."

"Can you guys shut up and try to enjoy this for like five seconds?" Luna exclaimed. "We're in Paris, try not to sound so upset about it."

"Luna's right," Dylan agreed easily. "We can sleep later– who knows when our next chance to see period-defining masterpieces will be?" Zach scrunched up his face and made a retching noise as he pretended to throw up, and Jason let out a fake yawn.

"I wanna see the Mona Lisa!" Luna cheered, tugging on Maddie's arm who gave her best feign-enthused smile. She patted Luna's arm, and kept theirs linked together.

"That's so basic. I want to see The Astronomer."

"I just want to see some of those naked paintings," Zach chuckled, amusing only himself and Jason. As if the museum wasn't literally filled with nude paintings and statues, and they hadn't passed nearly a dozen already.

"You're maturity, or lack-there of it, never fails to amaze me," Carson said, addressing the two boys that were still giggling like giddy little four year olds who were given too much candy.

"What do you wanna see, Maddie?" Luna asked.

"The bathroom," she responded, pulling herself out of Luna's grasp and coming to a stop. "I'll catch up with you guys in a bit."

Luna looked at her skeptically, but let her go and moved on with the rest of the group as the tour guide took a right, disappearing from view. Maddie remained in her spot until the last person disappeared around the corner and the tour guide's voice had faded completely. She turned on her heel, setting out to find a specific place.

"The bathroom's not in that direction," a voice called, stopping Maddie before she made it more than a few feet away. She turned her head, finding Carson standing to her left. He had his back facing her while he studied over an arbitrary painting, his hands tucked neatly in his pockets.

Slowly, he turned to face her, an indifferent expression on his face. This was the first time Madeline had really allowed herself to look at Carson all day. Carson was straining himself to be civil, and the last thing she wanted to do was act ungrateful or hostile about it. If that meant not allowing herself to touch, talk, or even look at him, then so be it.

All of the students were given an hour at the hotel, after checking in, to freshen themselves up and prepare for the tour. Madeline and Luna had decided to take a thirty minute power nap and rushed to get ready after, but Carson had certainly made the most of the time. He was wearing a pair of clean, white slacks, held up by a black belt, and paired with a loose-fitting, sage green dress shirt. A pair of sunglasses rested on the top of his head, pushing his hair off of his forehead.

What bothered her most was that they had unintentionally matched– well, sort of. She was wearing a white tank top and a sage green skirt that clung low on her waist, ending just above her calves. The matching color scheme they had going on seemed intentional, and it was giving the wrong idea to onlookers. The ticket collector even exclaimed 'Ma! Quel joli couple!' when they entered the museum, which caused a bit of awkwardness, especially since Jason found it funny.

"Why'd you stay behind?" She asked, hiding her disappointment that she hadn't managed to slip off on her own.

He shrugged, slowly turning to face her. "I wouldn't want you to get lost."

"I won't," Madeline responded quickly, desperate to get away.

He nodded his head, bottom lip pulled in between his teeth. He turned, looking down the hall, "Where was it that you were going?"

She shook her head, "Nowhere important."

"Really?" Her only response was a feeble nod. He hummed, "It has to be something noteworthy. It was important enough to leave the group."

Madeline crossed her arms over her chest, "Would you like to come and find out for yourself?" Carson's only response was a shrug. She didn't wait for Carson before turning, and once again starting out in the direction opposite of the one the rest of the group of students went.

Remembering her way around the museum was knowledge that had faded in the two years that had passed since her last visit. The Louvre was huge enough to get lost in, and even workers must struggle to navigate the building at times. She thought she would be at a loss for directions, but internally, she seemed to know exactly where she was, and exactly how to get to where she wanted to be. Her feet carried her with purpose, and she worked her way through the swarm of people with ease. She was aware of Carson, too. He was following her, but not too closely, giving her enough distance to break free and lose him if she chose to.

The closer she got, the faster her heat beat, pounding inside her chest. The blood rushing between her ears made everything else – the sounds of cameras, people, music – sound like white noise.

Finally, she entered the long hall of sculptures, pausing at the threshold as the influx of daylight from the large windows warmed her skin. The hall was filled with large bodies of work, all varying in stability and shades of almost-white. A quick glance down the hall left her surprised at the emptiness. There were a few visitors scattered around the room, but it was nearly perfectly silent.

She strolled down the length of the hall, lost entirely in her own world as she paused briefly to admire some of the statues she passed, only whichever ones caught her. She didn't linger at any of them for more than a moment or two before moving on.

Finally, she stopped. She lifted her head up to the statue with reverence, taking it in with a placid smile on her face. It was a famous statue, in a room full of other famous statues, but it was her favorite.

"You'd think that the god of sex would be packing something the size of Mount Olympus," Carson said, breaking Madeline's solitude. She whipped her head in his direction. He stood only a few feet away, his hands tucked behind his back as he inspected the statue, Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. Finally his gaze fell to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes sparkled with humor. "Go figure."

She couldn't help herself from smiling and letting out the smallest, most sincere of laughs. She bowed her head to keep Carson from seeing just how much she enjoyed his joke.

"You followed me," she said finally, turning her body in his direction but keeping her eyes on the statue.

"Of course I followed you," he said, softly, the words rolling off of his lips like he'd been holding them in for decades. "I'd follow you anywhere."

And he meant what he said, and everything he didn't say that Madeline still understood anyways. And her heart was beating rapidly again, and that same excitement from moments ago was back because Carson was in front of her and he made her feel something she couldn't sum up in words.

Her feet were moving before she could stop them, not that she would want to, and he was moving, too. He extended his arms, reaching for her and pulling Madeline into him with slightly too much force. She bounced onto her toes as she grabbed him by the neck and pulled his lips down on hers. She smiled against his mouth because, god, this was Carson and he felt like home and she missed it. And just like that the two of them were there, kissing, in Paris, in the middle of a museum, and it felt so right.

Or at least it would have.

But that didn't happen, because this is real life and this isn't a cheesy movie or a romance book, and in the real life, nothing like that happens. In real life, taking a stupid risk like kissing someone you love but chose not to be with is scary. And in real life, two teenagers making out very publicly in front of a nude statue of the greek god of love is more inappropriate and cringe-worthy than it is beautiful or romantic.

"I told you, I can't have you getting lost," Carson finished, the ghost of a smile on his face. It was almost as if he had understood everything that just ran through Madeline's mind. Almost as if it ran through his, too.

"I told you I wouldn't," she responded.

He hummed, his eyes leaving hers and returning to the statue. "Can I ask what's so special about this one?"

She sighed, "I don't know. I thought I did, but now- I just like it." Another minute of silence passed before she asked, "Do you know the story?"

Carson shrugged, "The important parts of it."

Madeline nodded, considering carefully before deciding to air her question. "Do you think Cupid would have loved her? You know, even if he hadn't struck himself with one of his own arrows. Would his love still be real?"

Carson glanced at her for a long moment, saying nothing. At first, she thought he wasn't going to answer. He brought two fingers to his lips, running them over thoughtfully, like he was remembering a kiss from long ago.

"I think he must have already loved her," he said at last, but his eyes had abandoned the art completely. He was only looking at Madeline, as if she was the masterpiece in a palace filled with slightly less important masterpieces. "Why sacrifice yourself for someone who means nothing to you?"

Madeline was quieted by his answer; it certainly sounded like he was talking about Cupid and Psyche, but it definitely didn't feel like that's who he was referring to.

"How can you be sure?" Madeline pressed. "How can you be sure he loved her?"

"He came back to save her, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah."

"Even after her betrayal. He saved her life."

"Yeah, but I don't get that. He left her. He was mad at her. Isn't he still mad at her for betraying him?"

"Are we still talking about them?" He asked.

She shrugged, "Who else would we be talking about?"

"Well, then, I would say of course he was still mad. That doesn't mean he stopped loving her. That's not how it works. He may have been angry, but he certainly wouldn't wish her dead." Maddie nodded her head, and decided to leave the subject alone; she was content with taking in the sculpture for another moment or two before heading back to the group and rejoining the miserable tour.

"What about her?" Carson questioned, taking Maddie by surprise. "If she loved him so much, unconditionally, why would it matter if he was a monster? Why did she hold a light up to his face and a knife behind her back?"

"I think she was worried that she had fallen in love with a monster so deeply that she wouldn't care, even if he was a hideous beast."

"Really?"

"No," Madeline decided, shaking her head. "That's not it. It's gotta be something more complicated."

He licked his lips, "Like what?"

"I don't know yet."

"What are you thinking?"

"She was terrified in that moment that, by betraying his one request of her, she wouldn't love him enough– or maybe that, if he was a monster, she would love him too much to do the right thing."

"It's an interesting theory," Carson responded.

Madeline shrugged, "It's all interpretation."

"Maybe. Is that all?" She shook her head.

"Psyche dies because she opens the dose of beauty from Proserpina; she wanted some of the beauty for herself. I think, secretly, she was terrified she was the monster all along."

Madeline's words fell short as she tilted her head, squinting at Psyche's form. She was naked, like a lot of other sculptures of mythological beings; but here, it felt different. Her nakedness looked unintentional– her arms were around Cupid's head, trying to pull him in closer, like she was so desperate to be in his hold that nothing else mattered, and everything else just fell away. And he was the same way: he was so desperate to hold her, to save her, that nothing else mattered, and everything else just fell away.

But what interested her most was Psyche's face. Psyche was dying. Psyche had been the subject of Aphrodite's hate since her birth– a mortal to punish. Psyche was then put on an epic trial that tested her, and, at the end of it, she risked everything by opening the box. This sculpture caught her in the consequence of that action. Psyche was dying, lest there be divine intervention. Psyche was dying, yet she was smiling.

Her face was relaxed, and she looked far too calm for someone on the verge of death. Her eyes were free of tears, wide with content as she stared up at her lover. In order to be saved, Cupid had to kiss her, but she didn't even have her lips parted. She was just smiling, like she had accepted her death and was happy, relieved even, that her final moments would be spent in his arms.

"The knife wasn't for him at all," Maddie continued on finally.

"No?"

"She doubted him. His love. He was a god, a beautiful god, and she was a mortal. She didn't understand how, if he was truly a beautiful god, he could possibly love her. She was scared, I think."

"Scared of what?"

"Herself."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "Could be many reasons."

"What do you think it is?"

"I think she was worried that their love would be wrong. If he was a monster, she would be wrong for loving a monster. If he was a god, then his love for a mere mortal would be wrong."

"But what does that have to do with the knife?" Carson asked. "How does any of that prove she was scared of herself, or that the knife wasn't for him?"

"Because it was for her."

"It was for her?"

Madeline nodded, "Whether he turned out to be a monster or a god, she knew the truth would be too much for her. The knife– she was going to use it on herself."

"So she was protecting herself... from herself?"

"I guess," she responded. "But it's more than that. When she picked up the knife, I don't think she was thinking about her protection at all. I think she thought she was protecting him."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I know it doesn't, but still, it does. She was scared of herself. She thought she was saving him from her."

"But she didn't, though," Carson responded sharply, his eyebrows narrowing in. "She didn't save him from anything. She betrayed him! And then-"

"And then he left her because she betrayed him, and it's too late for her to understand she was wrong. He comes back to her when she's dying, after being sent on a trial to win him back. The trial proves the depth of her love, and he sees that. I think that's why he saves her."

"What are you thinking?" Madeline asked after Carson had been silent for a while.

"I'm thinking if our English teacher heard your interpretation, she'd say you were wrong. Idealistic. Romantic."

"It doesn't matter what our English teacher thinks," Madeline said, smiling now. "It's a myth that's been retold and translated into so many different variations for centuries that no one even remembers the original– there can be no right or wrong. It only matters how you choose to perceive it."

"I don't know how I perceive it," he responded softly, looking her.

She let out a quiet hum, her eyes softening. "Are we still talking about them?"

He shrugged, "Who else would we be talking about?"

They shared a smile before Madeline pulled her phone from the waistband of her skirt. She had abandoned the group over fifteen minutes ago– much longer than it should take to use the bathroom and find her way back.

"We should probably go back," she told him. "They might start having ideas."

"We should have a story ready, just in case they ask. So, were we getting it on in the gift shop, or were we attempting to draw a mustache on Miss Lisa?"